It was years ago that the Abbess, still tall and fair, came to reside in the confines of Krezk. The abbey had been there almost as long as she could remember, a cloistered building of of bone white, it’s graying walls visibly darkening against the fresh snow from disuse. But then it was named. The Abbey of Saint Traft. And that was when she took responsibility. She could still remember him, the legendary man who brought justice to lands near and fair to the shining field and towers of Gavony. His face was stern, but not grim. There was a softness behind his strength. And now he was dead.

She has seen him once, just the once before taking ownership of the old and poorly maintained stone walls of the abbey. A wispy figure, faint and flickering, candescent manifest will of the man she served. There was nothing she could do for him. But all those years ago as she looked toward the rest of her existence, she thought she could perhaps help others.

That was a long time ago, and she had changed much. The town had changed much, grown about her like roots from a tree. And she had became a rumor, a whisper on lips. She knew what they thought of her and her quiet solitude up on the snowy hill, only surrounded by those under her care. But she had fixed them. “And soon.” she spoke out loud, tracing a hand along the red haired head of the woman resting on smooth sheets before her. “Soon you’ll fix him. And they’ll be safe. But first… They must remember we care.”Continue reading »

Your parents gave everything they had to serve the Emperor, and you will not – I repeat, will not – dishonor them or their memory by doing any less. You will be purified through prayer. You will be hardened by training. Sharpened by study. Your forebearers, being imperfect servants, -died- for a greater purpose. You, cadets, will -live- for one.

-Drill-Abbess Narcia, Opening Address to Hervaran Progeniae

The inspection of the Riser Creek facility begins, as the squad is familiarized with overland scouting by the feral worlders of the Cuyavale Close Infantry’s 1st squad. Initial reconnaissance makes clear what the Dominate hoped was only conjecture: the Orks have taken the facility.

It was on a cold day, filled with slowly falling snow that we see Baron Krezkov. Bald on top with his earth brown skin and wiry ring of white hair he was resolute, a dark spot amongst the pale ground. He was kneeling with a face so stony if appeared carved, glancing into the uncovered rectangle of dark dirt growing lighter with frost. He had lost so much. His wife, sturdy and willed had run out of tears before he had. And in this moment he did not think himself a strong man, simply there, broken and cold at the grave of yet another child.

But as we pull back we know he is wrong. A kneeling man, sturdy, holding the crumbling world together in the cold of snow, surrounded under the Hawthorne forest by other dark figures. Carpenters, farmers, blacksmiths, weavers all. His people. They stood around him in reverent mourning, a town supported by one man. And though he thought he wouldn’t make it through another day, he was wrong.

You shall cross many sunsets, make new journeys for yourselves on metal birds across the emptiness behind the stars. All for the safety of men and women we shall never see. You are the Drakon’s Teeth, and your enemies lie in pieces before you. For every sister or brother that does not make his way back to his Father Tree, you will carry the blade. And they will weigh heavily upon you, for they will have drunk their fill of blood beforehand.

Squad leader Otho Valerius deals with the responsibilities of his recent promotion as Fort recovers in the infirmary. The hot-shots of the Aetherian Rex are finally paired with another, larger regiment that has been in-theater much longer for a series of exploratory missions.

The Cuyavale Close Infantry 1st Squad, with their bone weaponry and primitive demeanor, would seem like an ill fit for the tech-savvy spacers, and it’s up to both squads to raise teamwork and comraderie to their limits. The Imperium and the Orks alike stand ready to pounce on any weakness.

The angels were gone. Not that they were ever particularly present here in the fog occluded black cliffs of Stensia. But there was a time where the cloud white wings navigated the spired mountains to the awe of the hardened folks below. Veonia loved them. She cared for them, knights kept at her side. She defended them as best she could.

And Veonia was gone.

There was a hole left. The Avacynian wards barely enough to support miracles let alone the angels themselves in this land of blacks and reds. And her knights of gleaming silver vanished into obscurity and decay as the assaults wouldn’t cease.
But they knew. Even in death they knew the anger of loss. The strength it gave them.